


The Last Bite

by ap_trash_compactor



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: F/M, Rebel AU, fluff friday, fluff friday for the thryce discord, rebel arihnda, rebel thrawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:18:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16420484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/pseuds/ap_trash_compactor
Summary: Getting what you want from someone is usually about making them comfortable. Sharing a meal is one way to do it. AU Thryce fic where all your faves are Rebels. Don't worry, it should explain itself along the way -- if not entirely in the first post. (Rated to give me possible leeway for later chapters.)





	The Last Bite

_Under the Old Republic, a dinner served “Serennian-stye” was a multi-course affair, where each dish was presented individually, with palate cleansers and drinks served during the removes (elaborate pieces of choreography between sections of the meal, where wait staff cleared and replaced the plate settings). The Serennian-style dinner was as much social performance as gustatory exercise. The point was to eat both well and heartily; on Serenno, both good taste and capacious appetite – having both the ability to recognize that which was good and the audacity to take it for oneself – were considered admirable qualities. A typical Serennian-style dinner had a minimum of six courses, but could have as many as seventeen._

_\- Tracene Kane, "Recovering Galactic History,"  New Republic HoloNet, Episode 15_

 

 

**Aperitif**

Rebel Base. Attollon. 0 BBY.

“Thank you, Captain Antilles.”

“No problem. Always happy to help our counterparts in the Navy – y’know, all gotta pull together.”

“Indeed, Captain.”

Wedge is still holding the jogan fruit he’d caught in mid-air, looking at the man off of whose mess-tray it had fallen. “Are you sure you wanna eat alone, Commander? I’m sure the squad would –”

“I am quite sure Captain, thank you.”

“If you ever change your mind – ”

“I will let you know, Captain.”

 

**Amuse-bouche**

Governor’s mansion. Lothal. 0 BBY.

“Jogan cluster?”

“No, thank you, Governor,” says Arihnda. Being summoned to Azadi’s office in the evening always means work; work means not eating.

“I’m sending you to the base on Atollon, Arihnda. You’re going to go tonight. I don’t want you here when the Empire comes to arrest me. Take Tua with you, too.”

“Governor – ”

Azadi waves a hand to cut her off.

“I know you like to think you can make anything turn out how you want, but it’s not going to happen this time,” he says. “I pushed a little too hard. There’s a cost to that.” He sighs, and sits down heavily at his desk, giving Arihnda a thoughful look. “You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve never said it before, but I’m glad you came to talk to me after Uvis pulled that stupid stunt with your mother. I’d hate to think where we’d be, you and I, if you hadn’t.”

Arihnda stays silent. Ryder sighs again, and looks out the window.

“Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?”

He isn’t precisely speaking _to_ Arihnda, but she finds herself answering anyway: “Yes, Governor. It is.”

 

**Appetizers**

Rebel base. Attollon. 0 BBY.

“Who is coming in at this hour, Captain Antilles?”

Wedge turns to give Thrawn a sidelong glance. “Governor’s aides from Lothal.”

“Is their arrival at this time of night not unusual?”

“You bet your blue ass it is,” Wedge says curtly, peering through the macro-binoculars at the little shuttle zipping in at top speed. “And the way Hera’s flying I bet they had a nasty time getting off-planet, too.”

“Indeed,” says Thrawn. “I suppose they must be rather important, if General Syndulla was sent to retrieve them.”

“Azadi and his staff helped set up this base,” says Wedge, picking up a slice of meiloorun from a plate beside him on the rock where he was sitting. “Shielded us from the Empire for years.”

“I see.”

 

**Soups**

Rebel Base. Atollon. 0 BBY. Two months later.

“Oh,” Arihnda says, stopping in the doorway. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

Thrawn is seated at an empty conference table, his only company an over-laden mess-tray and a datapad propped upright on a wire stand. He is chewing a very large mouthful of root vegetables and pulls a face, in spite of himself, that is not quite graceful.

“It’s alright,” she says, lifting one hand from around her cup of caf to wave away his attempt to swallow and speak. “I’ll find another room.”

He manages to swallow. “I do not mind,” he says, a little quickly but very politely.

“No, it’s really alright.” Arihnda would like five or so minutes to herself, to think in peace.

But she finds herself not quite turning to the door.

And perhaps the blue-skinned alien whose name she knows but to whom she’s never spoken – except once, except the night she arrived, and then only quickly enough to say hello – can see what’s going on. The way her eyes linger on the heap of food before him: the tall cup of steaming potato soup; the pile of roast purple and orange root vegetables; the green salad; the mouth-watering bantha ribs; the massive slice of sticky, dense glaze cake...

He must see in her face the fact that she’s not eaten all day, and that it’s just hit her all at once. He picks up a single jogan fruit from his tray, and holds it out to her, silently.

She hesitates. “Are you sure?” Really she should just go to the mess and abandon her cup of caf in favor of a cup of that amazing-smelling soup, but…

He nods, once, watching her.

She takes the fruit and leaves.

He watches her while she does that, too.

**Preserved meats and pickled vegetables**

Rebel Base. Atollon. 0 BBY.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Arihnda says a little wanly as she comes through the door, “but everywhere else is full. Do you mind?”

She has managed, somehow, to catch Thrawn in the middle of chewing, again. He hides his annoyance by looking down at his meal for a moment while swallowing. Then, composing his face, he looks up at her. Her body language conveys hesitance – a slight hunch of her shoulders, a slight _may I please?_ expression on her face – but it seems to be of a manufactured kind, as if she thinks it is what he will expect, and is therefore what she is trying to portray. Interesting. He shakes his head, mildly.

“No,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Please.”

Her hesitance vanishes. Her body unfurls upright – she is not tall but she moves in a confident and moderately graceful way that gives the impression of stature – and the uncertain look on her face is replaced by one that conveys a sentiment less like _may I?_ and more like _yes, I thought so._ Interesting, he thinks again, suppressing an urge to laugh.

“Thank you,” she says in a politician’s tone as she slips into the chair across the table. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he says.

There is a moment of real hesitance, very brief, after that. It is as if she didn’t have much of a plan beyond staking out a space at his private table, but also as if she wants something more. Interesting, too.

Of course, most people are curious about him, even in the mixed species milieu of the Rebellion.

But he is curious about her, too, this person who helped establish the base. He has the impression, though he is not yet certain, that she works in political intelligence. He wants to know more about that, too. And he is not unable to help a conversation along when he needs to.

“How have you found life on base?” he asks politely. “As I recall you joined us under rather dramatic circumstances.”

She smiles thinly, but not unhappily. Good. “It was rather like a bit out of holo-thriller, wasn’t it?” she says with a blend of annoyance and self-satisfaction. “To be honest with you, I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly gotten to look around much.” Her eyes flicker tellingly over the tray of food.

“No?” he asks mildly. He glances down at his plate, too, then up at her. She has a cup of caf with her. That is interesting – a neurosis of some sort, perhaps? Unable to give herself permission to eat, or perhaps unwilling to be seen eating, when she is working? Experimentally, he chooses something from his plate: nuna meatballs simmered in nerf butter. He spears one with a fork and holds it out to her. “Have you tried these? I believe the recipe comes from Garel. It is a neighboring world to yours, is it not?”

She looks almost startled for a moment. She covers it by becoming a little too sharp.“A little farther from Lothal than Attollon, actually, but yes, it’s close.”

“I see.” He says. He decides to gamble. Holds the fork out a little longer.

After a moment of hesitation, very real this time, she takes one of her hands away from her mug of caf, reaches out with two fingers and plucks the meat off the end of the fork. Another moment of hesitation. Then she takes a small bite. Interesting body language, there: she almost turns away from him a little. Almost dips her head down and to the side. Almost tries to hide. He watches all of it unabashedly. She chews once, swallows quickly. Then, almost furtively, eats the rest in one large bite.

“It’s good,” she says after a second. 

“Indeed,” he says. They seem to be in a suspended moment, so out of curiosity, he does it again. Tries something different, this time.

“What’s this?”

“Jellied shaak tongue. From Naboo, I am told. I am curious as to how it comes to us,” he adds casually, “as Naboo is the homeworld of the Emperor, and loyal.”

“Oh,” she says, plucking the little grey lump off the fork and eating it in an almost relaxed manner, almost with relish, “I can tell you that.” She eyes the plate.

He is quick to catch the cue. “Pickled sweet pepper, from Chandrilla,” he says, offering a thin strip of crisp-looking red vegetable to her.

“Thank you,” she says. “Naboo exports a great deal to Coruscant. We have a supplier who sends some of it back to us.”

“I see,” he says. “You work in political intelligence, do you not?”

She snatches one of the nuna meatballs of her own accord, and answers while chewing: “Mm, yes. Sort of. I'm more operations than analysis, though. I used to work in the Empire, but when they arrested Azadi, Tua and I barely got out with our hides. And you? What do you do?”

Thrawn smiles, just a little, and pushes the plate very subtly towards her. “Strategic adviser on naval operations,” he says. “I understand you helped establish this base?”

**Fish** – _hot or cold by season_

Rebel Base. Attollon. 0 BBY.

“You started running more than normal, Thrawn?” Wedge asks, eyeing the tray in Thrawn’s hands.

Thrawn’s morning workout – a ten mile run followed by another hour and a half of strength training and hand-to-hand drills – has drawn some imitators, but his habit of eating only once a day has not. The overloaded tray, always a source of skeptical glances, is about a third again as full as usual.

“No,” says Thrawn flatly. “I am not running more than usual.”

“Alright,” says Wedge.

But Wedge eyes him as he leaves the mess.

*

“What’s this?” Arihnda asks, taking an extra bowl off his tray and sniffing it.

“Fish stew of some sort,” he says. “From Insusagi, I believe.”

“Oh, where Saw’s partisans killed a ballroom full of civilians six years ago?” she says, taking a spoon and helping herself to the soup. “That was a disaster for us. The Empire might have paid for it themselves, for all the good press it got them.” She shoves stew into her mouth as if she’s starving. From the pallor of her cheeks and the dark, puffy crescents under her eyes, he suspects perhaps she might be, a bit. “They keep making problems for us, of course. Saw’s partisans.”

“Indeed. I confess I do not have as complete a grasp on the inner workings of the Rebel alliance as I should have.” It is an invitation for her to fill him in.

Arihnda snorts. “No one does. It barely works.”

“I see. Perhaps you would explain that to me?”

She looks up. Looks at the plate. Looks back at him. He hands her a generous chunk of soft, brown bread, picked out in advance for just this purpose.

She takes it. “I can certainly try,” she says.

 

**First Remove**

Rebel base. Yavin IV. 0 ABY.

“I do not have time to worry over every single person who chooses to leave the cause, Dravin,” Mon Mothma says with exhausted patience. “We are not the Empire. If we claim to value peoples’ freedom, we must let them have it.”

“We can’t fight a war if our best and brightest keep vanishing,” Dravin says, with a much less temperate kind of exhaustion. “First Neville Cygni, now Hera Syndulla and her _entrire_ Crew – ”

“Dravin! We’re not at war! And people are free to come and go!”

For a moment, Dravin only works his jaw in silent fury. Then, with careful, thin control, he says: “That’s not all this is.”


End file.
